


Hallelujah

by eisenhardted



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5752453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eisenhardted/pseuds/eisenhardted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An entirely plotless one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hallelujah

_She tied you to a kitchen chair,_  
Broke your throne and cut your hair,   
And from your lips she drew that hallelujah. 

The world is a lucid haze when he’s sat in that chair, torso tied to the wooden backed seat with a mixture of ribbons and scarves he thinks in other circumstances might even be laughable. His head is throbbing, the bitter bite of whiskey still on his tongue as his legs begin to ache, the gnawing need in his bones for another dose of the serum making him restless, struggling against his bonds with increasing trepidation. 

He knows she means well, but he wishes she didn’t. The only thing between him and relief is that blasted woman, the one fussing over him and coddling him, tormenting him with kind words and even kinder touches. He doesn’t want to go cold turkey. He doesn’t want to be plunged back into that world of pain, but it’s so hard to say no. To turn down the look of silent hope in her eyes when fingers brush through his hair, detangling the knotted mess and tidying it up with glistening scissors. 

Charles feels helpless, so lost and detached, broken and defeated by his own lack of resilience. He can’t help the way he swears when tufts of brown drift to the floor around him, neatening up his roughened edges in ways he isn’t sure he wants. He hates himself as much as he hates her for this, for letting the guilt seep into his soul. It’s why he calls her names, why he snaps and bites with as much venom as he possesses to try and spare himself more pain. 

It breaks her heart to see him so miserable, to loathe himself for something beyond his control, for a human response to the situation he’s been placed in. She only wants to see him smile, to give him back his faith in both himself and the world around him. She never says a word when she strokes through his shorter hair, never utters her worries or her cares when her mouth is at his throat, reminding him he’s perfect, reminding him he’s supposed to be here. 

It’s an unspoken mantra when she’s drifting down, unbuttoning his shirt and blessing inch by inch of skin with optimistic kisses. It’s not so much romantic as it is cathartic, an act of compassion to chase away his demons and let him feel something instead of the fear she thinks might otherwise consume him. Fingers hooking into his belt loops, she tugs his hips forwards to the end of the chair she’s strapped him to, settling on her knees with the hiss of a sliding zip. 

Charles is silent, unworthy of the warm swell of a mouth or the significance of the action when it finally consumes him. He feels lost, yet somehow found, struggling despite himself as his head lolls back, a hand fisting in brown curls as she draws from him a cold and broken hallelujah. It’s surreal he suspects, but he doesn’t object to the cheek against his thigh or the feelings the entire experience brings with it, every breath he draws that same quiet little exclamation. 

**Hallelujah.**


End file.
